


All The Way

by saintroux



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Stanley Cup Playoffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 05:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18844156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintroux/pseuds/saintroux
Summary: All Zhenya knew is that he wanted to do it together. Him and Sid. Just like it always was.





	All The Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goodnightpuckbunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightpuckbunny/gifts).



> written for the prompt: "a celly with a smooch"-- this may not be exactly the celly you were thinking, but i'd like to think it's the most important celly. hope you enjoy this small, sugary morsel!

After Zhenya passed the cup off to Jake, and shook out his shoulder, now partly reconstructed and aching a little, he looked around at all of it: the mess of hats and helmets and confetti on the ground, the crowd standing, all of them shouting and waving their towels. Dumo came over and patted him on the shoulder and Zhenya turned and let himself be hugged, in a way he usually didn’t. They had done it, _he_ had done it, again, after all these years. 

He had thought that they might do it last season: go all the way. But New Jersey had won game seven to advance to the Final, in double overtime of all things, and that was that. Zhenya had fumed then, but he couldn’t be mad come fall—what was a game seven if not entirely up to some wild whim of chance? It hadn’t been their year, and they could give it a go again the next season, as they always did. He and Sid together. The only way he had ever known. 

But Sid had been laid up on LTIR for most of this season, with a knee injury that he just couldn’t shake. He had spent the season ruthlessly dissecting games over morning coffee, and letting Zhenya fuss over him, and taking up just the right amount of too-much space on Zhenya’s couch. But he was here now somewhere, in his suit that he had let Zhenya pick out, with his lucky grey underwear and his patterned tie. 

Zhenya looked through the haze and the crowd for Sid for a while, skating around in slow loops. He found Sid lingering near the open door to the tunnel, standing on the ice in his dress shoes, laughing at some joke that someone’s mother was telling him. Zhenya tossed his gloves into the bench area and put his sweaty hand in the crook of Sid’s arm. 

"Hi, Sid," Zhenya said. 

Sid turned toward him, grinning wide and lopsided. "Hey." He put a cool hand on Zhenya's cheek, over his sweaty, unkempt attempt at a beard, no better than the last one he had worn this late into June. “You got some--” He brushed his fingers near Zhenya’s brow and the press of them stung a little. When he pulled them away they were bloody at the tip, but Sid was still grinning up at him. “You’re a mess.” 

Zhenya couldn't even feel the cut, or whatever it was. He was so happy and exhausted in equal measure; all he could feel was a deep, warm buzz, all the way down to his bones. “You look nice,” Zhenya said, stupidly, and then felt himself break into a cheesy smile. Around them everyone flitted around, shouting and embracing, moving past them into the tunnel. Zhenya kind of didn’t even give a fuck if they heard. 

“Some shmuck helped me put it together,” Sid said, brushing invisible lint off the collar and leaning into Zhenya’s side, “pretty pushy, lots of opinions.” Zhenya watched him try to wink, that awful way he did with at least one-and-a-half of his eyes closed. 

“Sounds like jerk,” Zhenya said, and looked back to the unholy crowd behind him, all the camera operators, the fans still lingering in the aisles and down by the glass. He tugged at Sid’s jacket sleeve. “C’mon, let’s go. See friends. Take picture.” 

“Oh,” Sid stayed put, a deep wrinkle between his brows. “No, it’s your night. You go. The guys know where to find me.” 

Zhenya looked at his familiar stubborn face, his body language that said he was ready to settle in for the long haul. He would never take credit for anything, no matter how many hours he had put into the team off-ice this season--still their captain, even through everything. Zhenya reached down and took his hand. 

“Geno?” Sid asked, looking down at their joined hands, their clammy fingers twisted together. They hadn’t talked about this in a while, but Zhenya thought--well, maybe he was ready, finally. 

“C’mon,” Zhenya dragged him along, looking back multiple times to see Sid looking around awed, gaping at the crowd like it was somehow new again: the lights and the shouting and all the rest of it. 

A few of the PensTV crew guys were taking footage of Jake with the cup cradled in his arms, and as they stopped filming, he nearly tipped forward and dropped it. Zhenya laughed and let go of Sid’s hand and skated in to take it from him. “Okay, I’m back,” he said, and scooped the cup up in one arm. It was heavier than he remembered, but he wouldn’t let Jake see him grimace. “Thank you, it’s mine now.” 

He let them take his picture with it for a few minutes, cheesing appropriately until his cheeks hurt. Sid had gotten roped into a conversation with one of the new color commentary guys, and he was smiling and gesturing wildly with his hands, the silver strands in his hair shining bright under the lights. All Zhenya could think about was lifting the cup all those years ago in Nashville, the flash blinding in his face, kissing it and looking at Sid over the curve of it’s endless silver edge. The picture still hung in his study, blown up over the mantle of trophies, in pride of place: one of his most treasured memories. 

Zhenya caught Sid’s eye and gestured him over with a quick flick of his head and set the cup down on the ice at his feet, fingers rubbing the smooth rim of the bowl. He felt like he wanted to touch it as much as possible now, because maybe he wouldn’t again, not for a while, not like this. 

“Picture, c’mon,” Zhenya said, lifting his arm up to encourage Sid to shuffle underneath. Sid peeled himself away at last and came over, and slid under Zhenya’s arm, the perfect height for it without his skates. 

“You’re too fucking tall in those things,” Sid said, laughing as Zhenya settled in, his arm draped over the thick shape of Sid’s shoulders. He gave Zhenya a long once over, and reached a hand up to twist his hat around backwards where it was obscuring his eyes. “There, now they can see your face.” The smile he turned on Zhenya was so sweet that Zhenya thought he might just lean in right then and there. 

“It’s good face.” He couldn’t pull his gaze from Sid: his creased eyes, the crooked shape of his colorful tie. A couple more people had gathered to take photos, and Zhenya could hear Sparks and Muzz laughing somewhere behind him, sounding like some echo of a different world. Zhenya’s world felt small, just this one little patch of ice: him and Sid and the cup between them. The years behind them and their whole lives up ahead. 

“Geno! Sid! Look here!” Someone shouted, but Zhenya didn’t want to look at anyone else, all these people that Zhenya could care about some other time, next season maybe. He took his hand from the cup and put it on Sid’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes, waiting for him to need an out, but Sid only raised his eyebrows a bit, his tongue flashing out to wet his lower lip. 

The scar he’d gotten from an errant high-stick was still visible on his chin, the lasting signs of their life’s work. Zhenya’s heart was jackhammering in his chest, and he bent down and kissed Sid’s slack unmoving mouth, his hand coming up to cup Sid’s jaw. Someone was shouting his name still, but he couldn’t hear anything but the adrenaline rushing around in his body. He’d done it now--this big thing, bigger than even winning the Stanley Cup. He couldn’t take it back. 

He didn’t want to. 

Sid smelled like nervousness and aftershave and pride, his skin was flushed under Zhenya’s hand. He smiled into the kiss and Zhenya could feel the hard shape of his fake front teeth. 

Zhenya wondered what this picture would look like, when it inevitably came. The two of them bent close together, Sid’s hand tangled in Zhenya’s overgrown hair, Zhenya’s hand pressed against his face, both of them smiling with the cup between their knees, where their names would now rest four times, each etching a small piece of their shared history. Zhenya wanted to get it framed to hang in his study, right next to the one from 2017. 

And who knew what the future looked like, now. Maybe Sid would never play on his knee again, or maybe Zhenya would grow old and get sick of the mundanity of hockey and take up woodworking, and move to Nova Scotia, and convince Sid to adopt a cat. Maybe they would move to Miami. Maybe they would move to the moon. 

All Zhenya knew is that he wanted to do it together. Him and Sid. Just like it always was. 

“You good, G?” Sid asked when he pulled back, his fingers still warm on Zhenya’s bent neck. He had that dopey grin on his face, like he’d won the whole world and knew it, a fat and happy king. 

“Yeah,” Zhenya said, and smiled a little, his secret smile, unselfconscious and all for Sid. “I’m good.”


End file.
